‘How are you going to pay me back?’ This is the eternal question of the hard-pressed dad as he hands £10 to a teenage son with an urgent appointment at the snooker club. ‘My Saturday job,’ says Isaac satirically. He hasn’t got a Saturday job and that’s my fault, apparently. His friends all have immensely well-connected parents who can offer them high-powered internships at Miramax and Coutts. But Isaac hasn’t secured one of these coveted placements. His mother, an archivist, employs an assistant who doesn’t need a second assistant. And the only professionals I know are narcissistic scribblers who sit at their laptops in a fug of crack fumes and unwashed laundry. The last thing they want is a perky youngster offering to make TikTok videos or to buy opioids for them on the dark web.
I hate animals. I fear animals. My hope is that if I don’t try to eat them they won’t try to eat me
Isaac claims to know someone whose dad works in Downing Street as head of robotics, AI, digital manipulation and Deep-State fakery or something.
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